


the plum-bob

by scuttlesworth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 21:09:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1200675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scuttlesworth/pseuds/scuttlesworth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not quite poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the plum-bob

John loves  
Mary loves  
John loves  
Mary loves  
John. 

He loves her hair and the glint in her eyes and her wicked, wicked mouth. The way she laughs. They way she makes him laugh. The way she's focused on him. 

She loves his crumpled face and his rumpled hair and his compact little body and his surgeon's lethal hands. 

John loves Mary loves John. 

 

[(Sherlock loves) John (loves Mary.)] 

It's never the what, it's the how. The what is boring. 

(John loves Sherlock, but not like he loves Mary.)  
(Sherlock knows.) 

 

Sherlock loves Mary (but not like John) and Mary loves Sherlock (and she knows, oh, she knows. She can be kind, for the sake of the love John bears her. The victor can afford generosity.) 

 

Molly loves Sherlock (oh, he knows. He used her for coffee and crisps and suspicious puncture wounds and bits of gallbladder. He made it so clear he was using her, and she begged for more.) 

Sherlock loves Molly too - but not like John, never like John. (a kitten who chases the string you dangle. Silver scalpels are her claws. Beware the kitten.)

Lestrade loves Molly. He walks home alone at night in the dim street lights with his silver hair and his silver badge and his golden ring on the third finger of his left hand, and sees his door and pauses. Stop, smoke, dream. Molly in a little apartment, sweet on him. The sex they would have, the smiles she'd give him, smelling like soap (and a little like formaldehyde.) The touch of her hand. (He walks into the house and greets his wife, with her tan and her nails and her perfume. She sleeps with her back to him, their feet kept carefully appart.) 

He thinks nobody knows. Molly doesn't. Molly is the blind kitten, looking only at the string, the hands. Sherlock's hands. So no, nobody knows. Not even Sherlock, not even John. Nobody looks. 

 

Mycroft knows.


End file.
